


The Science of Photography (or an act of mending fences)

by moon_opals



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Donald Duck needs a hug, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Huey wants his family to be happy, Hurt/Comfort, Scrooge doesn't want people to know he has feelings, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 03:32:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13181466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: All it takes to bring the family together is a photograph, three concerned nephews, and one dutiful niece.





	The Science of Photography (or an act of mending fences)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tris-reblogs](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tris-reblogs).



“Do you think Uncle Scrooge and Uncle Donald like each other?”

Huey paused his 1,050th reading of The Junior Woodchuck Guidebook. His eyes peaked above the aged pages, “What do you mean, do they like each other, they love each other, Dewey.”

Since they moved into the mansion, their rooms were separated. Each had their own room to call their own, to relax, to chill, to sleep until the late, late afternoon, but old habits die hard. When the boys wanted to commune,

Huey's room was the most sensible choice. His room was the cleanest, tidiest, even when compared to Webby's immaculately organized abode. 

As the oldest, he didn't complain unless there was homework to complete, and Huey always completed his homework on time.

He propped the guidebook on his knees, reclined on the bed with a serious stare on his face. Louie stuffed the bean bag chair, completely occupied with the television.

Huey's logic wasn't often questioned, but the simplified, _"They love each other,"_ didn't meet Dewey's standards.

He didn't doubt his uncles loved each other in their own, incomprehensible way, vastly different from the abundant albeit occasionally troubling affection they showered them with, but Dewey sensed their relationship was filled with its own specialized complexities they weren't willing to discuss, at least with them.

This was what he perceived.

They were ignorant of his upper-hand.

 It felt little bit like cheating.

"Yeah, they love each other." His thoughts jumbled and calmed at once, "But they're family. You don't have to like your family."

 "It's like Uncle Donald and Uncle Gladstone." Louie pressed the forward button at an alarmingly fast pace, "They don't like each other - at all, but family helps family."

 "You're right!"

Dewey faced Huey's troubled expression, "Wait, are you okay?"

Huey didn't know what he wanted to say. He didn't know how he wanted to say it. His lips puckered, "We know why Uncle Donald and Uncle Gladstone don't get along," his brow knitted together neatly, "Uncle Gladstone's luck makes him popular, charming -,"

"Doesn't make him charming." Ottoman Empire blasted on the television screen, "Makes him kind of a jerk, and a mooch. The charm is all him, y'know?"

"Fine." Huey conceded, "But we know why they don't like each other, or why Uncle Donald doesn't like him. But we don't know why Uncle Donald and Uncle Scrooge don't like each other," he stared pointedly at his brothers, "haven't you ever wondered about that?"

Louie sunk into the bean chair, "Probably over a debt Uncle Donald owes him, or something Uncle Donald destroyed.

Dewey stiffened.

"It doesn't make sense." Huey set the guidebook to the side, and swung his legs over the edge, "Family helps family, it's all he's ever told us. Every holiday we'd spend it at Grandma's, or Uncle Eider's, or heck, remember that time we visited Uncle Fethry?"

"Heck yeah." Louie sipped from his soda can, "Man knows how to party."

"See?" His voice always skipped a pitch when he was excited, "We know so much about the Ducks but nothing about the McDucks."

 _"Or Mom."_ His bottom lip trembled. He stared to the floor and kept it there.

Huey paced. Speculation tightened his face, "Think of it, if we hadn't played that prank on Mrs. Featherly, Uncle

Donald wouldn't have ever told us. Ever."

Dewey gasped.

Louie dropped the remote on the bean bag.

It was not quite an unspoken agreement among the brothers. Their uncle would not have told them the truth, or he would have further down the line. It was easy to imagine their lives would have remained the same, forever trapped in the mundane, but they preferred to push those thoughts to the background.

Dewey gulped, “Like Louie said, it’s probably about money.”

“But if it was, why wouldn’t Uncle Scrooge say something?” Huey folded his arms, “He’s all about checks and receipts, and trust me, he’s shown the receipts.”

“Why not ask Webby?” Louie suggested, “She knows all there’s need to know about McDuck family drama.”

"You're right."

It was the best advice Louie could have offered, “Webby has a full chart on the family. I’m sure we’d find something out from her.”

"Um...okay...we can go with that, sure." Dewey scratched the back of his head awkwardly, and forced an excited smile that didn't reach eyes.

* * *

Webby wasn't in her room.

She wasn't in the library.

The garage a.k.a _The Hall of Mysteries_ was untouched.

Each and every cookie in the cookie jar was inconspicuously accounted for in the kitchen.

That was a sign. The cookie jar was safeguarded on the highest shelf of the highest kitchen cabinet. It nearly reached the ceiling, and none of the boys could make it up there without blundering disaster.

Her favorite locations were searched, showing zero signs of disturbance. They met at the foyer, confused and slightly worried.

"Mrs. Beakley went to the supermarket, didn't she?" Louie shoved his hands into his hoodie, "Maybe she went with her?"

“Yes, but she went alone,” Huey replied, “I watched her get into her car.”

“Maybe she’s hiding somewhere in the ceiling?”

They stared blankly at him.

“What?” Dewey said, “It's Webby. Climbing on ceilings is one of her oddly specific abilities."

"But the foyer is a safe zone," Huey answered.

"No, it's a tomb," Louie corrected.

Dewey was about to chime when a rocking melody drummed behind him. A distant, muted, blast blared on the windows, causing the slightest of tremors, and three heads turned to glance at the pool below. The clear day didn't stop them from narrowing their eyes in confusion, squinting to gain sight before they widened in surprise.

"Is that Uncle Donald and Webby?"

"Are they dancing?"

Louie pulled back in disgust, "I don't think that's dancing."

"You have to admit it's cute." Huey cooed, "Looks like we've find them. At least we don't have to search for Uncle Donald."

Huey and Louie ran ahead. Dewey stared at the pair dancing on the deck, sighed, and followed quietly behind them.

* * *

It was a 80s rock ballad.

"Don't start unbelieving...," or it could have been, "Don't stop believing."

Either way, the song was obviously, obnoxiously 80s.

Donald washed the house boat deck, nodding and bouncing his tail feathers to the beat. He strung the mop as if it was a guitar, and laughed as his partner slid on the water, sponges strapped to her feet. Webby danced around in elegant strokes, arms spread to balance her.

“Ya’ gotta nod your head!” Donald instructed, “Like this!” He banged his head vigorously, the feather tips flicking on his head.

Webby’s eyes brightened, “Got it.”

Her bangs banged along with her head, and the boys stopped at the edge of the pool, trapped between absolute horror and embarrassment.

Donald grooved to the 80s. Webby's dances held a bit more variety.

Huey was disappointed that he left his camera on his bed stand. He clamped his beak shut as his smile strained to not overwhelm his face. Louie and Dewey blanched, deciding it was time to march up the plank to end the travesty they were hoping no one had the means to record.

Donald danced and sang. Webby's sponge shoes swept across the deck, wiping away the dirt and grime built up. A trail of soapy, murky water trailed after her.

For ten, agonizing minutes, they carried on, oblivious to their audience.

Louie found the boom box on an old barrel and pressed the stop button.

"He, what's the big idea!" He turned around, "What's wrong? Something happened?"

“No."” Huey reassured him, “Everything’s okay.”

Dewey tilted his head, “We didn’t mean to interrupt your," he paused awkwardly, "dance session.”

“No, no, yes, we did." Louie admitted, "Someone had to."

“Hi guys!” Webby slid to a stop, grabbing the railing for balance, “What’s up?”

Huey looked at Donald, “We wanted to ask you a question.”

“Oh?” Interested, he set the mop aside, “What is it? Is everything okay?”

Louie shrugged, “Everything’s good, but we were wondering about something.”

Dewey stared at Webby and shook his head. Confused, she blinked at him, shaking her head in response, and he put a finger to his lips to silence her.

“Go on, shoot.” Leaning on the barrel, Dewey suspected it wouldn’t take them long to find one line from the tangled knot.

“What’s up with you and Uncle Scrooge?” Huey stared unflinchingly, eyes direct and shoulders straight, "Don't you like each other?"

Dewey was amazed.

Huey was sensitive, compassionate, and responsible. He considered the factors to ridiculous extents, and tried his hardest to be thoughtful of the feelings of others. But this didn't mean he couldn't be harsh, or painfully blunt.

Dewey watched as their uncle's open, stress free expression close and tighten, pinching the corners of his eyes and mouth.

"Why'd you ask that?" He chuckles cracked, “Scrooge and I…huh…we’re…we’re family.”

"You are." Huey stated flatly, 'But you don't like each other. Why?"

“And why you didn’t tell us he was our uncle,” Louie added.

When the other three stared in surprised, he looked offended, “What? You can’t tell me you’re not curious either.”

Huey continued softly but persistently. He was cautious in his choices, aiming to press the right buttons for desired reactions, "We know something is right between you, and we'd like to help in anyway we can."

"When did we decide that?"

“Back in my bedroom.”

“We didn’t agree on that.” Louie motioned to Dewey for confirmation, “Did we?”

Dewey shrugged between his brothers. As the middle one, he shrugged helplessly, "I don't think it was audibly confirmed? I didn't get that from the conversation?"

"The conversation implied this." Huey smacked hi forehead, "We should want to help them. It isn't right for us to get along," he motioned to the four of them, "while you're at odds with each other."

Louie sighed, "Not having you around for Christmas...was...weird," his face twisted, "it wasn't right."

Dewey winced.

He thought they weren't supposed to talk about that.

They thought they were going to the public library.

Scrooge's sudden declaration sent tremors down his spine as he imagined their new holiday tradition. Dewey had relied too much on the potential resting on the deadly, treacherous mountain, and the satisfaction blew his mind when the potential had been realized in fatalistic snow and wormholes.

But it was when they sat down did the freezing sharpness take rest in their stomachs with hot cocoa in theirs did the realization of what they had done smacked them upside their heads. They had unknowingly done the unthinkable, and they didn't know what to think about it.

Uncle Donald had made it easy.

Their return included tales of half-formed, frost-bitten bodies, and Donald sat through it all.

He was proud Huey made the right decision.

He was relived Louie decided to take a seat back.

He was happy Webby enjoyed her first sled ride with Dewey.

He clutched his heart when Dewey described the avalanche. His feathers paled when he heard Dewey and Webby had unquestionably, undoubtedly fallen over a cliff and was saved by pure chance that the mountain's wormholes had redirected them to relative safety.

"At least no one was hurt," or required an immediate visit to the nearest hospital.

“Yeah.” Dewey scuffed his heel on the deck, “It was weird. Like totally, super cool to go riding down the raging mountain as its avalanche sped after us, but it was weird.” He toyed with his shirt fringes, not able to look his uncle in the eye as he admitted this, whatever it was that he hadn’t known was inside until now, “Not having you there? It was fun. But…not…right.”

Webby watched quietly. Water and soap was pushed under the weight of her shoes, causing a dirty puddle underneath her.

"Ew, Webby."

"Sorry, physics," she whispered.

An undeniable tenderness overcame him, "Boys, this isn't something you should worry about."

“We know.” Huey answered, “But we do anyway.”

“It’s adult business.”

“Your adult business has an effect on the family.” Huey didn't want to be soothed, “That includes us."

Sometimes, occasionally, every once in a while, Dewey knew his brother was the coolest person alive. Half Donald's size, a quarter his age, but he carried himself with such...not pride...but something that made him seem older, even taller in their uncle's shadow. They weren't on the same level, not yet, but of the three of them, Huey was the closest.

Donald grimaced. His beak curled downwards, shaping back into its perpetual frown. His sight swayed to the house boat's edge.

Their breaths waited in silence.

The long-awaited sigh of defeat came. With the crumbling sigh came the crumbling walls, and Dewey knew his brothers had succeeded.

"You don't have to do anything." Donald's shoulders sagged, "I'll talk to Scrooge."

“But…”

“And then we’ll talk together as a family, okay?”

They had nothing to say to that.

* * *

 

There were chores to be done.

He ushered them off the house boat.

He patted Huey's shoulder encouragingly, ruffled Webby's hair affectionately, and sent them on their way with a firm reminder that they had nothing to worry about.

Also, to do their homework. That was important.

"Now, go, go, I'll finish this up."

"We want to help, Uncle Donald."

"Nonsense." He said, "You already have."

He smile reassuringly; a final smile before he slammed the door shut behind him.

“Huh.” Louie said, “Could’ve gone worse.”

Donald was good at making choices.

No one knew about this. It was a secret skill he rarely gloated about in fear he'd lose it.

This talent was tentative. He couldn't absolutely trust this skill. Was it skill, he asked. Was it luck? Could he rely on his growth as an adult?

He didn't know. But it didn't matter. He was good at making choices. Hard choices, easy choices, dubious choices, he could make them, and he often did.

A common assumption was that he was terrible at making choices. Bad wasn't enough for them.

He'd admit there was some truth to it, as there was truth to all misconceptions.

Donald wasn't the best decision maker, but he was rarely indecisive.

Indecisiveness could ruin him. He couldn't be indecisive when taking custody of the boys. The tiniest mistake would have child services knocking on his door, and considering the boys had grown into healthy, intelligent, and capable ten year olds with only the minimal incidents, he was proud to say he hadn’t failed in that.

Or not completely.

He made choices. He made choices that were better than others, and some of his choices occasionally led to disaster.

But he was still breathing.

He still breathed and lived. He wouldn't say thrive, but it wasn't about thriving. Surviving was what mattered, and occasionally, he'd think to himself, _"Damn, am I living."_

The last bottle of lemonade waited on the counter. He leaned against the counter and popped the top. The drink was sweet and sour, swimming freely down his neck.

Another assumption was that Donald was stupid.

He wasn't stupid. He was quite clever, intelligent, even wise when it was needed of him.

Social services wouldn't wait half a day to make their visit after witnesses the house boat exploding on national television. His agreement to live with his estranged uncle was made of necessity, and he hoped Scrooge knew that.

Because if he could make an easier choice, a better choice, a harder choice they'd live with his Grandma.

Astute enough to realize living under his uncle's home increased the chances of unfortunate situations and questions by twenty, Donald accepted the heavy price he'd have to pay

He couldn't wave their questions off with a floppy, “That’s how things are,” or his preferred explanation (which wasn’t an explanation at all), “She’s gone.”

Awkward, painful discussions waited for him. Why, what, when, and how? He'd have to answer to all of that. It was only a matter of time. The worst part wasn't the truth. He shook his head. It was never the truth, but the confrontation with his lack of action. He had fled from the past for ten years.

Donald drank the last of the lemonade.

He sighed.

He wasn’t ready.

He doubt he’d ever be ready. He didn’t think he’d be able to confront the truth of the past as readily as the boys wanted him to.

He thought of their conversation and their questions.

“Great," he rasped.

He may not be ready to talk about what happened, but he could do something else until he was.

_“Great.”_

* * *

 

Donald didn’t want to knock. Weird. He had trouble opening doors every now and then, but having to put his hand on the doorknob was never an issue.

Not until now.

Scrooge wasn't waiting for him on the other side. He was probably reviewing financial reports or something of the like. He had no reason to suspect Donald was in front of the door, hand curled and ready to knock, debating whether he should attempt or simply flee in frustration. 

For Scrooge, Donald predicted his questions was one of the most trivial importance. It was as trivial as shopping at the local supermarket, hunting down for those last minute Christmas sales.

Donald didn't knock.

He walked in instead. He was so tired.

“Uncle Scrooge?”

"What is it?" He didn't look up from his reports, "Did the children get caught raiding the cookie jar again?"

"No."

"So, why are ye' wastin' me time?"

Donald frowned, "The kids are asking questions, and I don't know what to tell them."

“And why don’t ye’ know?” He set aside one report for another, “It can’t be hard to tell the truth.”

Donald resisted to burn a glare in the middle of his uncle’s head, “They want to know why we don’t like each other.”

“Hm?” He raised his head, “What do ye’ mean why we don’t like each other?”

“I can’t obviously tell them the truth!” His temptations didn’t count. He wasn’t ready to deal with doubt and pain, “They’ve got questions I can’t answer...not now.”

“And why not?” An arched brow told him all he needed to hear, “Ye’ should’ve told them a long time ago, Donald.”

“And tell them what exactly?”

“Oh, how about yer uncle is Scrooge McDuck.” He slammed the pen on the desk, silently seething, “They didn’t even know!”

“And that’s what you’re worried about?”

“No!” He crossed his arms, “It’s upsetting tae’ know they don’t know anything about their grandmother.”

“That’s the problem?”

Hortense was mentioned offhandedly in the past. The inevitable family tree project was responsible for this. Donald had reached into his trunks to find his old photo album.

He’d given them what they needed for a more than passing grade, “They know Ma!”

“But not that she had a brother!” His suspicious glare wanted to throttle him, “Or a sister?”

Still defiant, he looked away, “We rarely see Aunt Matilda anyways!”

“That’s ye' excuse?"

“They know she exists!” Donald stormed to the desk, “We can’t afford trips to Scotland, and she can’t afford trips to America."

“And ye’ blamin’ me for that?”

“No!” He waved his hands in the air, frustration steaming out of his ears, “I’m telling you how it is, and why it is! They know Aunt Matilda, they know Ma, they just didn’t know you.”

“And why’s that!”

“Because I didn’t want them to!”

A deafening silence snapped between them. Cruel, nauseous, and debilitating, this silence threatened to slice them in halves, and there wasn't time to gasp in shock or in shame. Donald simply stares as the weight of the words forced Scrooge into his chair, struck speechless.

This wasn’t what he intended to say.

It wasn't what he wanted to say.

He'd sometimes think it. When he watched the boys play, or when they'd get in trouble at school (never Huey though), or when they'd read their books and do their homework, he'd think it.

If they hadn't joined him, if he hadn't been Donald Duck, she'd still be there to raise her children...but that wasn't

what he thought during those quiet moments.

He never imagined he'd express those thoughts aloud, in his uncle's office, to his uncle's face. Not like this.

It was part of the deal when it came to words. They didn't accept refunds. They couldn't be exchanged and bartered.

Scrooge sunk in his chair. False calmness surrounded him, waiting as the wrathful storm broke apart every inch of his facade.

In the past, the anger - his uncle's anger, managed to subdue him.

Donald had been half his size then.

“Look.” He scratched the back of his neck, “I’m not saying I didn’t want them to know you. Well, I don’t – didn’t.”

“That’s reassuring.”

"Bad things happen to people who adventure with Scrooge McDuck." He shook his head, suddenly quiet, "You told me you were taking them to the library, and thirty minutes later, Louie calls me to tell me they're going to miss Christmas."

Scrooge gripped the reports on his desk. He stacked them neatly, one on top of the other, "It wasn't like that."

“Oh?” A similar arch curved his brow, “Are you sure, because finding out my boys are half away across the globe to go mountain climbing on one of the most -,”

“Mount Neverrest isn’t one of the most dangerous mountains. It’s the most dangerous mountain ever to be climbed.” Scrooge corrected stonily.

“And you brought four children up there!”

“None of them were hurt!”

“Webby and Dewey fell off of a cliff!” Scrooge flinched at that. He'd forgotten the boys' attention to detail, "Huey outran an avalanche, Scrooge!"

“Ye’ve got tae’ admit that’s impressive!” He grabbed the stamp near the pen holder, “Not many people can say they’ve outran an avalanche.”

“Not the point!”

Donald growled. Scrooge had an unusual ability to enrage him in a completely insufferable way, more so than he was used to. It was about jealousy or envy, or even simple frustration at his multitude of riches. His anger was deep rooted, planted at the very bottom of his soul. He didn't want to throttle his uncle. He didn't want smash his face in with his bare fist.

He wanted him to understand.

He wanted him to see his way of thinking, if only once.

That was an impossible request, which made Donald all the angrier for it.

"The kids aren't stupid." His bill serrations squished tightly against each other, "They can tell we don't get along. I came to propose a plan to set their minds at ease."

“And why should ah go along with yer plan?” His eye roll and air quotations made his subtle point apparent.

Donald pushed vengeful thoughts to the back of his mind.

“Because if we don’t get our act together they’re going to ask questions.”

“And they should -,”

“About Della.”

Her name knocked the wind out of them.

Donald made choices. He made the hard, ugly, unfair, and simply cruel choices no one wanted to make.

To make those choices, to understand the reasoning behind them, he took a long, good, look at the factors leading to those choices. He had to.

He would never be ready to talk about Della. He didn’t want to divulge in her fate, the last time he saw her alive, but if he, her twin brother who knew her like he knew his own mind, was ill prepared to face the slaughter accompanying the confrontation, then it was safe to conclude that his uncle…the most stubborn man in the world…one of the coldest men alive…who held her dearest to his heart, wasn’t ready either.

Donald was counting on it.

* * *

Scrooge held the stamp in an iron grip.

“They’re going to ask hard questions.” Donald explained softly, “I’m not ready to tell them the truth. Kids aren’t stupid.”

“Ah didn’t say they were.”

The reports rumbled beneath him as if feeding off his anxious energy. His hardened exterior started to quake, unwilling to crumble.

Donald fished for the right sentences, "We need to…distract them…from asking anything," his breathing steadied, "I'm not...strong enough...I'm not ready for that. Not now."

“We don’t have tae’ do that.” Scrooge admitted sheepishly. He set the stamp aside, “They’ve been asking ye’ questions about us? What good is it tae’ keep secrets?”

He bit his tongue as his clenched fists trembled at his sides, “You have a garage filled with actual world altering secrets. Do you want this to be the hill you die on?”

Scrooge contemplated the half-brained proposal, “That depends. What’s ye proposal?”

Donald’s face said all that needed to be said without muttering a single grunt. He never thought he'd enjoy spoiling the moment as much as he did then.

“I need your help."

* * *

Scrooge hadn't forgotten the room existed.

What he had done was forget to visit it in the past ten years or so, possibly eleven – give or take.

Donald’s upper half rummaged through yellowed news articles, crinkled maps, and greyed photographs.

He watched on with weary eyes. His cane was propped up in his hand. Donald hadn't explained his intentions, but did direct him to where he wanted them to be.

"Ah hope ye’ enjoyin’ yer fun, nephew.”

“I am.” He fell back on his bottom holding an old photo album, a proud grin rested on his beak, “Aunt Matilda kept all of this, and you left it to dust, shame Uncle Scrooge.”

Scrooge's pronounced scowl deepened as he took a seat, “I run a multi-billion financial empire, I don’t have time to reminiscence.”

Donald shrugged non- committedly, “It’s your loss.”

“And why are ye’ so interested now?”

He brought a photograph to the window, “I want to show the boys. You have all the old family photos Aunt Matilda doesn’t have.”

A hard glare shielded the twitches. After several moments, he rose impatiently, “Ye’ making a mess, yer going to mix them all up.”

“They were already mixed up!”

“Ah had a system.” His cane crashed onto the floor with finality, “Ah don’t need ye’ disrupting it.”

Donald rolled his eyes, scuffling to the side as Scrooge pushed old papers and books aside, “Give me some light, boy, do ye’ think these eyes of mine can see in the dark?”

Donald’s disgruntled mumbles reached Scrooge’s left ear, and he chose to ignore them for the sake of completing this task as quickly as possible.

“Ay’ve got work to do,” he grumbled beside him.

* * *

Louie avoided play events with ease.

All he had to do was discover the spaces Webby didn't know, but it could be that she was content to leave him to his devices, just for today. When compared to his brothers, his stamina was obviously weaker, and it didn’t rise to occasion like Webby’s. He walked down the corridor with his favorite soda in hand, ready to watch the latest episode of Ottomon Empire on his phone in the comfort of his bedroom. 

“Now, that’s our family photo…one of the few photo’s we’ve got of the family.”

“Hard to think you used to be cute.”

He didn’t think he heard what he thought he heard. The voices were right, matched the faces and names, but it wasn’t right. He stopped in his track and took three steps backwards. He noticed there was a slight crack in the door. Attracted to the uncommon noises, curiosity guided his sights to the door’s thin slit. He gasped and heard as it was swept under the weight of their casual chatter.

He knew it wasn’t an office, despite the desk positioned near the window. The walls were aged, the floor collected a thin blanket of dust, but showed signs of recent use. Seated on opposite sides of the trunk, Donald and Scrooge conversed in quiet, delicate tones. The distance was noticeable. Donald slouched over the trunk, arm hung over the compartment as his hand held a faded photograph. Scrooge’s back pushed onto the trunk’s side, and though he didn’t look at Donald, they knew he was listening to every word.

Louie’s throat tightened. The soda warmed to where water dripped feverishly on his hand. What he observed in silence wasn’t meant to be seen. Their stances were real in a way he hadn’t thought of. He didn’t think to leave then, not at the moment. There was much he wanted to see. The casualness in their voices, the relaxed muscles in their bodies.

“Ye’ were a pair of rascals. Della moreso than ye.”

“…Too much of a rascal, if you ask me.” At his angle, Louie saw the family photograph. Unlike Uncle Scrooge’s photo that had aged quietly through the passage of time, the Duck Family photo retained some of its coloring.

Hortense McDuck’s curly red hair was straightened into a low-neck bun. She shared her proud smile with Quackmore whose hands were wrapped on Della’s shoulders. Uncle Donald stood in front of his mother, and Louie sipped quietly, unsure of what to think.

He should go. He wasn’t meant to see this private moment between uncle and nephew.

He stepped back with the can to his lips. He’d leave them to their nostalgia.

“Hey Louie, what’d ya doing?”

Louie’s shoulders lurched upward, and his body lurched forward, pushing through the door. He landed on the floor with a loud thud, and the empty can slipped from his hands, clattering on the floor.

“Wow.” Dewey said, “That was dramatic.”

Louie pushed himself up, “Dude, what was that!?”

“Wasn’t trying to scare you,” Dewey defended, “you were just…staring…quietly…like this…wanted to know what you were looking at.”

He wanted to point as his uncles. The circumstances were easily explained, but his uncles did it for him.

“What are ye’ doing?” Scrooge stood, scowl set on his face, “Come and crashin’ in me’ room?”

Huey came from behind. He stared at the perfect angle and saw the photo album lying on the floor near Donald’s knee. The glued photographs distracted him as his brothers’ argument began to spiral, starting with Louie smacking Dewey on the arm. Dewey smacked him back, and after five smacks, the brothers were pushing and shoving, smacking each other in the faces and rolling on the floor.

Huey crossed over them. The photo album caught his attention. It’s simple body and its simple pages with its photos allured to him, and he hurried to Donald’s side, scooping the photo album into his greedy hands.

“Who’s this Uncle Donald!” He pointed to a small child with curly hair. She sucked her thumb eagerly, “And is that Uncle Scrooge…no…he’s not married…and who’s this?” His questions were non-stopped, and Donald laughed, scooting to sit closer to him.

“Um…I know for sure this is your grandmother, Hortense McDuck.” He pointed to the child, “And these are her parents, Fergus and Downey, Uncle Agnus — Fergus’ brother, and your Aunt Matilda…and believe it or not, Scrooge McDuck.”

“Uncle Scrooge?”

The aforementioned uncle pulled the boys apart, “Ah don’t think it’s that hard to believe ah used to be a child.”

“It’s just…,” Huey’s wide stare was comical, “you were so cute.”

Donald chuckled, “And this is your mom and I…about six, seven?” He looked to Scrooge for confirmation, “You tell me. You know I’m bad with numbers.”

“Humph.” Scrooge dragged the boys by their collars, and returned to his spot, straightening his spectacles, “Ah see, hmm…ye’ were eight. Ah took ye’ to Paris to search the catacombs.”

Webby leaned over, mouth agape, “Paris catacombs. Look at all the dead people!”

“That’s so cool,” Dewey added with an identical expression, “And who’s this girl standing next to you, Mr. McDuck?”

“Uh…,” Donald gestured quickly to Scrooge, to remind him this was his question to answer.

Recognition flooded Scrooge's gaze. He held the page dismissively between his fingers. Age blurred the girl’s pretty face, but under the grey fuzziness was a golden smile seen under the brightest lights.

"A cousin...not important...let's move on," the page flapped loudly as it moved to its successor, his attempt to circumvent any future questions.

Each photo filled page revealed more of the past than they ever had known. Their grandmother and great-aunt had in fact traveled with Scrooge, “That blasted teddy bear cost me a fortune.”*

It was impossible not to listen to their stories with growing interest. If they had prepared in advance for this moment, Webby and Huey would've taken notes, but they sat down eagerly, eating away at their uncles' haunted, exciting tales.

It wasn't simply they who had been sent to the past. As the stories grew longer, as the tales exceeded extravagance, they watched as the years peeled off their bodies, leaving Scrooge and Donald slightly younger, slightly more cheerful, slightly more put together. Whatever lingered between them, be it familial affection or warm closeness, had taken hold of them, forcing them to coexist in this room, in this present.

Donald grimaced at one photo, “My head got stuck in a vase.”

“Aye, that it did me boy!” Scrooge laughed, “It took us three days to get it off without breaking it.”

“This is absolutely amazing.” Huey mused, “We’re going to have to do more of this.”

Louie sent him a look, “What’d ya’ mean?”

“Photos!” He raised the photo album above his head, “These are scrapbook opportunities! We can’t pass them up, and I can always earn my Photography badge.”

“Of course you can…”

Scrooge was impressed, “Ah don’t know ‘bout that. Doesn’t sound like a bad idea." He scratched under his beak,

“My former painter died a few years back, and my professional photographer retired years back.”

Huey squealed, “Yay! We’ll take pictures next time, and we can start a new photo album.”

Donald tussled his hair proudly, “That’s not a bad idea,” he smiled at them, even Scrooge, “not a bad idea at all.”

Scrooge smiled back.

He smiled freely and openly, maybe a little mischievously. The adventures had started anew, and so much was different, faces and names and worlds. So much remained that was the same, and surrounded by his family, new and old, Scrooge didn’t deny the warmth that filled him like the photos gave life to the photo album.

Huey smiled, handing him the photo album, and Scrooge grinned, nodding in approval, “No, no, I don’t think it’s a bad idea at all,” he closed the album, “it’ll save me’ the money too!”

Huey, Dewey, Louie, and Webby cheered.

“All we have to do is find a camera and new album,” Webby said.

“Ye’ think ah’m going tae pay for that?” Scrooge huffed, “Ye have any idea how much they cost?”

Donald groaned, “Uncle Scrooge,” but even his groan couldn’t cover his growing mirth, “we’ll go to the local Piggy Wiggly’s.”

Scrooge frowned as she shook her head, “As if ah’d ever…Piggly Wiggly…these are leather bound photo albums from 1880s Glasgow!”

Five sets of eyes turned to him in exasperation.

"Sure, Uncle Scrooge."

Their laughter filled the room, had given it life it hadn't seen in the past decade.

* * *

It was strange, sometimes, to have friends, to belong.

She didn't understand their jokes most of the time, or their slang, or their trends, but they were kind in showing her what she needed to know.

She loved the feel of it. She loved them, more and more she realized this.

This was what love felt like, the all suffocating love that told her she belonged.

This love was different from her Granny's, similar - different, and she loved both all the same.

It’d be a lie to say the fun and easiness was consistent. Some days were difficult, others were harder, and she knew, without a doubt, there were days when she was difficult too.

But she believed she was starting to understand, if only a little.

When sunlight pushed its way through, reflecting on the name plaque propped on the dusty desk, Webby focused on the old photographs and bubbling, easy laughter from their mouths instead.

She'd keep this secret for another day.

**Author's Note:**

> (*) Explanation: Don Rosa's, "The Sharpie of the Culebra Cut," is the story that includes an adventure with the McDuck siblings and Theodore Roosevelt. Hortense is awesome.


End file.
